


Bloody

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's in the basement (Xander's) all covered with bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody

1883

Spike gets to lie on the floor for a long time, thinking about exactly  
which parts of him hurt.  While the world gradually sorts itself out  
again and those nasty, sharp lights stop flashing behind his eyes, and  
the blood running into his mouth clots, and he's able to spit it out.    
Thinking that of all the blood in the world, the foulest has to be  
your own, when it's cold like that.  Thinking that he's cold.

Which is an odd thought for a vampire, but maybe it happens to all of  
them sometimes.  When they're naked on the floor of some particularly  
wretched Amsterdam cellar, pretending they're not crying.

He can hear Dru upstairs.  The swirl of her skirts across the carpeted  
floor.  It amazes him how much he loves her.  Someone told him once  
that things without souls couldn't love anything, but he doesn't know  
what else to call this constant awareness of her.  He knows what she  
sounds like, coming down a flight of stairs, standing still in a room,  
taking that first, almost-alien breath that means she's going to  
speak.  At some point, she'll come down the stairs, and it might be  
nice if he'd pulled himself together again before that.  Maybe got  
dressed, maybe washed the blood off his thighs.

Angelus is a sick bastard.  He likes his perversions to stay in the  
house, which is most likely why he objects to Spike's more spectacular  
tortures, but there's no question that he's the master once the blinds  
are pulled.  It's an education.  One in which he mostly gets smacked  
with the books instead of read to from them, but still.  There were  
even a couple of good moments, like when Angelus bent over him and  
licked away the smear from Spike's bloody nose, almost-warm skin  
against his, and that truly spectacular tongue.  Very clean wool coat  
against Spike's naked skin.

Of course, what came after really doesn't bear thinking about, but  
that's only to be expected.  He's been told all the stories in which  
Drusilla chose him, out of all the mortals in London, but he knows it  
isn't true.  It has to be Angelus who chose him; it's just that the  
girls probably don't realize it.  Because, in spite of his best  
efforts to toughen up, Spike looks like them.  Soft, rumpled hair,  
huge eyes, tangle of white, naked limbs on the floor at Angelus' feet.    
That last one especially.  The boss man likes 'em naked and cowering.

The first time he pissed Angelus off, he couldn't walk for three days  
after.  Drusilla didn't find him until the second one.  At the time,  
he wasn't even grateful to see her.  As long as he was alone, he could  
at least cry.  It didn't quite go with his image, but he thought maybe  
he deserved to be able to.  Nobody who'd spent that many hours bent  
over a stonemason's table getting fucked up the ass by a master  
vampire should have to make himself presentable for his lady just yet.

But she'd only knelt beside him, a big swirl of skirts that ended in  
white-soft hands, and pulled him into her lap.  Crooned over him and  
rocked him and sang nonsense.  Then bent and licked the blood off him.    
While he laid on the slack cloth of her skirt, she curled around him,  
ran her tongue along the inside of one bruised thigh and massaged the  
cold blood pooling just under the surface.  Cleaned the too-white skin  
gently, working her way up.  Finally reached his still-aching hips and  
laid for a second with her cheek against one buttock, then nipped him  
gently and continued her cleanup.

It wasn't a Dru he'd seen before, but as she was licking his scrotum,  
he wasn't going to complain.  Whimper like a girl, maybe, but she took  
it as a compliment.

Later, she brought down blankets and bedded down with him, and they  
just laid quietly together until he was strong enough to rise.

He'd only adored her before; he loved her afterward.  And her  
understood that he'd used up all the pity she had for him that night.    
She was prepared to weep over him while he suffered once.  The next  
time, she was just as likely to go looking for a knight more worthy of  
her.

So.  

He pulls himself up and leans against the table.  Stares into the  
mirror that doesn't reflect back and laughs.  The hysteria is there,  
just under the surface.  Fuck him, just like a woman.

Oh.  Ha ha.  Very funny.

Screaming with laughter by that time, and groping for his clothes.    
The cold blood in the corners of his mouth dissolves as he moves, and  
resorbs into his system.  He's hungry, though.  Greedy bastard,  
Darla's love, and he eats while he fucks.  An absolute bloody pig.

Leaves the shirt untucked, both because dishevelled is his look of the  
moment, and because the swirl of it helps hide that he's walking like  
an old man.  Runs fingers through his hair and grins again at the  
unreflecting glass.  Blood on his teeth, he thinks.  One grin'll drive  
Angelus nuts.  Nasty Mick poof won't do anything, though, not with  
Darla and Dru both in the room.  And by the time he can pull himself  
together, Spike will be long gone, and he won't be back until he feels  
tough enough to start the next round.

He jumps the overturned couch on his way to the stairs.  Then stops,  
turns back, and spits on it.

***

2000

Thinking that he really doesn't like basements.  Not really out of  
line, since he's viewing the current one from a really horrific  
kitchen chair, one that might have been new -- cheap, but new --  
around 1956.  White vinyl padding and chrome-tube frame.  With bloody  
unpleasant ropes, some kind of synthetic, lashing him to it.  Kinky,  
in its own way.  

He can remember a really wonderful week in 1962 in Berlin that he and  
Dru spent, with him tied to a chair (albeit a much classier one) and  
her wielding that army knife with chilling precision.  On his  
shoulders, on his calves, on his shoulder blades.  Never deep enough  
to scar, but plenty of bright, hot hurt to keep his attention on her.

At the end of the week, she cut the first knot and left him to work  
loose.  Stood naked and unearthly by the edge of their mattress while  
he got the ropes off and crawled over to her.  Laid himself at her  
feet and kissed them.  Licked her toes.  Her ankles.  Every vein that  
ran up her legs, and he knew all of them.  A regular specialist in  
Grey's anatomy, him.  Licked both hip bones and the rim of her pubic  
hair, and the tiny, sharp point of her clit, then crawled over her,  
laid himself out on the bed, and let her take him.  In his lap, *on*  
him.  Cutting her wrist open with that same knife and giving back what  
she'd taken.

He doesn't, somehow, think Xander's maybe up for that.  But  
nostalgia's got its moments.

He's gotten good, again, at recognizing people by their footsteps  
upstairs.  A light, uneven shuffle is Mrs. Harris.  Staggering, nasty  
drunk is Mr Harris.  Random, long strides are Uncle somebody-or-other,  
who's useless but will not be the first to go when Spike finally gets  
loose, really loose.  He's had a lot of time to decide who that's  
going to be.

The big, quiet steps are young Master Harris, Xander himself.  Like a  
big little boy creeping around and trying to get into the basement  
before anyone knows he's there.

It's him now, coming in and doing the creepy-slide over towards the  
fridge.  Mother's in there, but maybe she's passed out.  Or maybe  
Xander thinks she is, because into the lion's den he goes, and not as  
carefully as he should.  Muffle of his voice, then a half-shriek that  
must be her, and a couple of quick steps Spike can't identify, then a  
human body slams against furniture.  The creeping this time lasts  
longer, and it ends when the steps hit the stairs, and by now he can  
smell that it's Xander, and that he's bleeding.

"Wakey-wakey, evil dead!"

Spike flinches a little before he can help himself.  Xander's almost  
too ebullient for vampire eardrums, especially when they're in  
eavesdropping mode.  And he just shouldn't be.  He should be  
miserable.  The whole side of his face is red, and he's going to have  
a spectacular shiner in a few hours.

"Lovely family you have."

Xander gives him a dirty look.  Starts to say something angry and  
doesn't.  Walks across to the fridge and finds a blood bag, throws it  
to Spike cold.

"Nummy."  Even cold is better than nothing, he supposes.  Warm would  
be better.  Microwaved with Wheetabix, and god but he misses Giles.  A  
good Brit is hard to find, really, and the Watcher's got a few  
interesting skills that aren't too surprising, given that naughty  
rogue-warlock childhood of his.  Close up, you can see a couple of  
scars where he had safety pins through his cheek.  

What was he thinking?  Oh.  That warm blood is good.  Warm blood.    
Warm Xander.  Warm, thickening blood, just a couple of drops, at  
Xander's hairline.  He tries to think of a combination of words that  
will persuade Xander to come over here and *just . bend . down* for a  
minute, but nothing comes to mind.

Having fed the Evil Thing, Xander's now apparently set on ignoring  
him.  He's got his back to Spike, and the shirt's coming off.  There's  
a nasty bruise there; he must have fell against the cupboard.  Red,  
but turning purple.  Another one snaking across his back and down  
under the waist of his pants.

"Interesting colouring there, mate."

"I --" Xander stops and recommences ignoring him.  Spike knows what  
comes next. *I fell down the stairs.* *I ran my bike into a tree.* *I  
tried out for football.  Lost.  It was terrible.  All these two-  
hundred-pound gorillas jumping on me.  Don't you feel sorry for me,  
Wills?* And Willow, who carries around with her an apparently  
limitless supply of sympathy, will dole him out some.  But it occurs  
to Xander sometime before he finishes the sentence, or even really  
starts it, that his current Will is William and not Willow, and now  
he's blushing.  Scarlet all the way down to his jeans.

"She's smaller than you."

"She's my *mom*."  Long, pleading tone, as if her existence explained  
all of it.  The blush is deeper, harder, and all of Xander's blood now  
must be resting just under his skin.  Spike thinks how he's never seen  
Mrs Harris, but he has a good idea of how tiny she must be from the  
sound of her steps.  Wonders how small Xander is in his own mind that  
she can hurt him so easily.

"C'mere."

"No way."

"Aw, c'mon.  It's not like I can rip your throat out or anything."

"You'll forgive me if I don't trust you."

"Which one of us is tied up?"

"I keep forgetting."  Xander walks over, stands close.  An expanse of  
oddly masculine belly gets pushed up nearly to Spike's face.  White  
skin and dark hair curling around Xander's navel.  "What?"

Spike snakes his tongue out and trails it through that hair.  Gets  
just a whiff of sweat and body-smell, but he can feel the blood just  
under Xander's skin.  It would be so easy for him to vamp out and just  
nip and *fuck* his head hurts.  Bugger it.  He cants his head forward  
and flattens the tongue against stomach muscles that he can *feel*  
convulse against him.

"You're really sick, Spike."

"And yet you're the one keeping me tied up.  Say no."

"No.  You're out of your mind."

"I can't hurt you."

"Not the point.  You're a vampire."  Beat.  "You're a *guy*."

Spike gives him his best baby-soft smile, the one that usually only  
works when his hair is washed out and hanging loose around his face,  
but it isn't too bad this time.  The one that says, *I'm your bitch*.

Which must work, because the ropes are off his shoulders.  Still  
around his wrists, actually, and more or less functioning as a leash,  
but as long as his shirt's off it's not really an issue.  Because at  
least he's out of the chair, and sitting cross-legged on Xander's bed  
is the most comfortable he's been in weeks.  

They're not even going to *discuss* the merits of Giles' bathtub.

Xander has picked up Spike's bound hands and is having a good, long  
look at the fingers.  Looking for something vampire-ish, probably.    
Hideously long nails, or claws, or something.  The nicotine stains  
can't be all that fascinating, though maybe the century or so of  
addiction they represent is enough to hold the boy's attention for  
now.

"Cigarettes give you cancer."

"You don't say.  I'll put it at the top of my list of worries.  Right  
next to the chip in my head and the nasty American boy who keeps me  
tied up on his bed."

"You'd rather be in the chair?"

"Now that you mention it . . ."  He supposes that any answer he gave  
after that would be sufficiently cutting, but Xander hauls him  
suddenly forward, and without his hands to catch him he's down on  
knees and elbows before you can say Angelus.  Gets a first-class view  
of the new-ish bulge in Xander's jeans.  Nose against it.  Thinking  
how much human erections smell like blood.

"You going to mope there all night?"  Xander, whose hand is now firmly  
holding the back of Spike's head.

He's willing to bet that Xander was hoping for something exotic.    
Opening the fly with his teeth, maybe.  Spike just opens his mouth and  
wraps it around as much of the still-clothed erection as he can.    
Mouths and chews gently.  Xander above him whimpers in a not-very-  
masterly way and bucks against his mouth.  Which hurts the teeth --  
they're more sensitive than they look -- but sobeit.  

Till Xander pushes him off and gives him a bare two feet of slack and  
says, "Strip."  And Spike has to choke to keep from laughing out loud,  
it's really that ridiculous, the pup giving him orders, but it's fun  
enough to go with.  Boots first, then the buttons on his jeans, then  
the long wriggle that involves actually peeling them off.  Skin-  
tight's fantastic in every way except the dressing and undressing  
part.  But it's got Xander fascinated, and that is, after all, what  
counts.

Once he's naked, he just sits back down, cross-legged again, and  
waits.  Watches while the boy stands and unbuttons his jeans and lets  
them fall loose, then steps out of his boxers.  He still has his socks  
on, and Spike can't help but think that Xander at this particular  
moment seems to have escaped from some particularly implausible blue  
movie.  Until he's pulled down on his elbows again, and what with the  
angle and the chip in his head, *not* sucking isn't even really an  
option.

He wonders whether the government pansies had this in mind when they  
designed that particular little nasty bit of hardware.  Not unlikely,  
all things considered.

Xander's sprawled and naked, happy for now with what's got to be the  
best blow-job of his young life, though maybe only because the  
princess Xander dated in high school never gave him one, and the demon  
he's currently attached to thinks oral sex is demeaning.  This much    
Spike's figured out from his hours of eavesdropping.  He's mostly  
locked in the furnace room while they go at it, but he doesn't need  
eyes to figure out the giving-it-to-get-it deal those two have going.  
And Spike knows this is better.

"Omigod.  Spike . . ."  Breathless little-boy voice while the hands  
push him off, up, over to straddle Xander's hips.  No prep, then.    
Spike winces and tries not to show he's doing it.  He'll heal, of  
course.  Vampires do, but . . .

Slick, hot fingers between his ass cheeks, and he's happy to just  
balance as best he can while Xander fingers him open.  He tries not to  
look anything but satisfied.  It's an indulgence, but that doesn't  
mean he has to give anything away to get it.  He'll be giving it up  
soon enough anyway.

Like now, with the head of Xander's cock pressed up against him.  Two  
tries to get it in, and another one before he can really thrust down.    
Whimper-hiss through his teeth that he can't quite swallow, but  
somehow he doesn't think Xander's attention is on him just at the  
moment.  Both big dark eyes have rolled back and he's arched half-off  
the bed.  There are a great many endorphins doing their magic little  
work on him just now.

So he waits until Xander relaxes, then starts rocking a bit.  Letting  
the cock up him move in-out, back-and-forth with that little  
rearranging-your-guts-in-the-best-possible-way manoeuver.  Enjoys the  
moment when it stops hurting like a mother and starts feeling *good*.

At some point, Xander started petting him, but Spike's not going to  
tell him to stop.

"I thought you were some kind of sub, but you aren't, are you?"

Clever, warm hands on his belly, rubbing over his hips.  The cock in  
his ass is fantastic, hard and demanding and a little big, pushing the  
burn up into the rest of his body.  

Xander keeps reciting happily in his best nature-special voice.    
"You're the king of the Beta-males.  You couldn't manage being top dog  
if it was handed to you on a plate.  But since you kinda get off on  
letting the Alpha hold you down, it's pretty good.  You get off on it,  
don't you?"

"Don't," shift of Xander's hips and the cock in him surges sharply  
against his prostate, "oh fuck, kid yourself, mate.  You're not  
Alpha."

"I know."  Nasty crookedness to Xander's grin, and he's abruptly aware  
that Xander *does* know, and that it gets under his skin regularly.    
"But I'm fucking you."

And then howls, because Spike rocks forward then and plasters himself  
against Xander's chest with Xander's cock still straining in him.    
Shift of hips under him while Xander braces to thrust, then they get  
some kind of a rhythm going. *Up* in him, *back* into the shell of  
Xander's pelvis, *in* against that human-warm chest, where he can  
mouth to his heart's content as long as he never actually breaks the  
skin.  Blush and bruises and sex-flush just underneath it, though, and  
he can taste blood in the sweat pooling between them.

Big hands on either side of his head. *No*, he doesn't like that.  Too  
much like Angelus, who liked to insert lectures into their basement  
sessions, usually at moments when Spike couldn't raise his head  
anymore.  Xander's fingers have hooked against him -- behind his ears,  
under his jaw -- and they're pulling him up. *No*, and he can't say  
it, for any one of a hundred reasons.  Because the body under him is  
mortal, and mortals don't get to know when vampires are scared.  
Because nobody in this whole stinking town needs to know the details  
of what he and Angel've done in quiet hours.  Because he's not sure  
that if he actually said it that Xander would listen, and being the  
chip-head that he is, there's no way to enforce *no* as a command.

Xander kisses him.  Warm lips on his.  Warm tongue in his mouth,  
human-living teeth tapping against Spike's dead ones.  Xander's eyes  
are closed, but Spike's are wide open, and if Xander decides to sneak  
a peek, he's going to get some idea of what immortal terror looks  
like.

*Hard* up in him, and the jolt rubs their bodies together in a way  
that's bloody wonderful.  Hard.  Hard.  Hard enough to hurt and he  
pushes up into the next kiss and rides Xander's orgasm out.  Waits  
until the body under him is boneless before he tilts his head upward  
and carefully licks the congealed blood away from Xander's temple.

Human blood has this edge to it that all the pig's blood in the world  
won't replace.  Even dried and cold, it's enough to send him over.    
White fire behind his eyes and between his legs and in that deep place  
that Xander's been striking.  Oddly soft kiss in the midst of it that  
Xander lays on him.

A minute or so later Spike's thinking that children these days have no  
respect for the afterglow.  He's out of bed, down on his knees and  
held there by the rope that's somehow been strung *under* the  
bedframe.  Hands on the floor and his face turned upward.

Hot splash on his lips.  Tongue, teeth, white fire.  Xander's blood.    
Dripping from Xander's palm and falling too slow through the air to  
strike the fringes of his Spike's face.  Brush of warm fingers along  
his jaw.  The floor joists above them creak a little.  He tilts his  
head.

"They're going upstairs."  Xander, who can probably recognize each  
inhabitant of the house and their intentions for him in a split  
second.  "'Night, Mom.  'Night, Dad."

Xander bends from the waist and kisses Spike's upturned mouth.  The  
tongue that runs between his lips claims at least one blood drop back,  
and for a second Spike wonders if he should be worried.  Likely not.    
It isn't *his* blood, after all.  It's just Xander's, recycled and  
still warm.  And as Xander's standing over him again with a knife,  
he's thinking maybe this has possibilities.


End file.
